


the prompting of some heaven-taught seer

by MercuryGray



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Gen, Mystic powers, divine intervention, you know me have words will add female characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:59:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26066866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryGray/pseuds/MercuryGray
Summary: A side slip from captainkilly's The Long Bright Dark.It's easy enough to test a man's physical fitness, but just how does one test his relationship to his gods? With god-given means, of course.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9
Collections: Form & Void Sideslip





	the prompting of some heaven-taught seer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [captainkilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainkilly/gifts).
  * Inspired by [the long bright dark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25790872) by [captainkilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainkilly/pseuds/captainkilly). 



> Array thy troops; for here the city wall,  
> Easiest of access, most invites assault.  
> Thrice have their boldest chiefs this point assail’d,  
> The two Ajaces, brave Idomeneus,  
> Th’ Atridae both, and Tydeus’ warlike son,  
> Or **by the prompting of some Heav’n-taught seer,**  
>  Or by their own advent’rous courage led.”
> 
> -The Iliad, Book VI, Andromache's Plea to Hector

It’s common practice to cast a horoscope before marrying a god-chosen - determining the auspiciousness of the day, the alignment of the god’s caprice and favor. Such a marriage is not, as they say, for everyone. No one likes to share their beloved, and to be god-chosen is already something like a marriage. ****

But the army is a kind of contract too, a marriage of sorts, and that is why she is here, in this office, with her files, interview after interview. Most who come through her door are expecting the star-shops of their youth, the places they’ve been hustled and dragged since they were children by anxious parents trying to get a grip on what the universe has served them. They always look a little disappointed that there are no crystals or herbs, no stacks of cards or scrying balls or sticks of incense smoking lazily away. There’s just an unremarkable young woman in an unremarkable uniform sitting behind an unremarkable desk.

Some of them quickly realize why - she’s god-marked, too.

She still has some of these things, in a little side office that she keeps shut. This is a process, not a moment’s work, and it takes time. After her interview, she’ll take her notes and meditate upon the man she’s just spoken with, the little tentacles of feeling she got from them. Some are radiant with favor, power spilling out of every breath and glance, and some have only quiet touches, here and there, a brief glimpse of promise. 

Some of them are clueless that they’re marked in this way. Some bring their gods with them. She looked up in one interview and saw golden stars across her desk, a whole summer in the man’s smile, his deity draped across his shoulders. “Well, how ‘bout it, gorgeous?” the god asked, grinning. “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t wait out the war in an office.”

(It was one of the only times her god intervened on her behalf, and she was glad of it, because she would have let him have her, right there on that desk, unable to refuse. “Leave off,” her god said, descending like a cloak of stars, his hands heavy on her shoulders, “She’s mine.”)

That soldier’s application was diverted somewhere his divinity could do less harm. Some things don’t belong in a war. Of course they’ll all be on suppressants eventually, but who’s to say what conditions in the field will bring? This is a delicate balance, the determining of placements; a man’s skills can be shaped to some extent, but the god that chose him cannot be moved.

The folder in front of her now is just like all the others - name, serial number, date of birth. She studies it briefly before looking up at the soldier across from her. Auspicious name, too, considering to whom he belongs. And looking at him, really looking - there’s no mistake. There is the shadow of violence in his now-calm eyes, and when he blinks, she hears the flutter of a crow’s wings. Oh, he is _absolutely_ one of Hers. She hears gunfire in his speech, can see blood on his now-clean hands. They exchange pleasantries about the weather, the wait for this interview. He has the poise that marks Her chosen, that absolute, indestructible calm. _Give me a weapon, and I will win battles for you._ It is in his every breath, in every fiber of his being.

He leaves, and she closes his file, lays her hands down on her desk, and breathes deeply, trying to clear the universes from her eyes. She can smell pines, and snowfall, and freshly-churned earth, can hear his breath as he runs…somewhere, to do something. But where and what is unclear. Only that he will do it, and he will win. _Holy Mother, who was that?_

Her god has gifted her with Sight, and she thinks she has just seen this war’s Achilles.

**Author's Note:**

> _Of Peleus’ son, Achilles, sing, O Muse,  
>  The vengeance, deep and deadly; whence to Greece  
> Unnumbered ills arose; which many a soul  
> Of mighty warriors to the viewless shades  
> Untimely sent._
> 
> \- The Iliad, Book One


End file.
